Don't own anything except O.C.
It had been ten hours since she woke up in the strange bed. She had slept on and off, her body burning through the toxin in her system. In that time John had reappeared at random intervals, bringing soup and water when she drifted into consciousness. Barely ten words were spoken between the two of them.
She knew that this situation was crazy, and that any other person would be having thoughts of "kidnapping" or "hostage". Yet she knew this was not the case. For one, she had nothing to be kidnapped from. Her only family was her father, and he showed his feelings with old-fashioned violence. She would rather be on the streets than live with that man any longer, and John provided a warm, albeit imposing, alternative.
In addition, she felt truly safe with John. He was nothing but kind to her, if not a bit scary at times. He put out an air of security that she had not felt for a long time.
Stretching her arms above her head, she rolled out of bed (still clinging to the jacket) and walked around the room. Finding nothing of interest, she tiptoed out into the hallway, down the corridor and into the general living space. There was a single chair and table, with a com screen set up on one wall. Tapping it gently, she sat in the chair and watched as a horror played out on screen.
It was turned to a news network, and they were covering the man she saw burning on the flagpole. Cameras had captured the incident, and you could see the man's face contorted into one of terror. A face that was much too familiar.
Before her brain could process any more, she ran to the disposal and began to dry heave.
Her father. The man she hid from all her life. He had hurt her for such a long time, but the idea of him dying like this. Being burned at the stake, like they did centuries ago. It was barbaric, sadistic, and calculated. This was meant to terrify people and make the final moments of her father's life one of shame and agony.
Just as she was reaching to turn off the com, the door slammed shut behind her. She turned to find John staring down, holding a large duffel and wearing a brand new coat. In the fading light, he looked like a god.
At this point she wouldn't have been shocked to find that to be true. But for this moment, he was simply a friend who was standing there and he was warm and real and she needed that. So she sprinted towards him and buried her face in his coat, squeezing him tightly around the waist. Hesitantly, he placed his hand on her hair and let her hold him, just the two of them standing still.
After a minute he pulled away and took her hand, guiding her back to the room and laying her down on the bed. Out of the duffel he pulled equipment that looked like it had come straight out of a starship medbay. She looked at him with big eyes.
"Where did you get this?"
He didn't answer, focused solely on his task of threading the needle with snakelike precision. Extending his hand, he looked at her briefly.
"Bite down hard."
She did as he said, and almost smashed the bone in her pain as he neatly sewed up the still open cut on her stomach. Yet when she finally let go, the finger looked untouched. Before she could bring it up, he had packed up the duffel and was standing up. Reaching, she grabbed his coat and tugged on it briefly. When he glanced around, she took a deep breath, and muttered.
"So about what happened earlier..."